“Ugh, Santo!” I cry into the morning quiet. I toss the covers off my head and look straight into the camera on the ceiling across our room. “I don’t like when you leave me!”
My phone chimes on the night stand.
I grab it and swipe at the screen
Santo
I went to grab your Christmas present. Breakfast is in the kitchen, snackcake included! I’ll be home in twenty.
I sigh and mumble “Okay.”
I smile at the text, still grumpy but placated. Snackcake’s first thing in the morning is an apology, I’ll take it!
A little peace offering, a little love letter in the form of sugar and chocolate.
I stretch, feeling the silk sheets against my skin. December sunlight filters through the curtains, painting golden stripes across our bedroom. Outside, a light dusting of snow covers the grounds of our estate. Our first Christmas season living here full-time.
Last year, we stayed at the penthouse while the estate was renovated.
Padding to the bathroom, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a tangled mess, and there’s a faint mark on my neck from where Santo’s lips were last night. I touch it gently, remembering.
“Twenty minutes,” I mutter to myself. Enough time to shower and make myself presentable. Santo always looks impeccable, even first thing in the morning. It’s unfair, really.
The hot water feels heavenly, and I linger longer than I should, letting it wash away the last vestiges of sleep. By the time I’m dressed in a soft sweater and leggings, my hair still damp around my shoulders, I can smell coffee wafting up from the kitchen.
I follow the scent downstairs, my bare feet silent on the heated floors. I haven’t worn my signature four-inch heels since Santo declared this December our month off!
In the kitchen, a plate of pastries including my snackcake sits beneath a glass dome, a little note propped against it in Santo’s precise handwriting:
“For my Dea.”
My heart flutters. Even after all this time, the little things he does still make me feel like I have a crush on my husband, like some teenager. I pour myself a cup of coffee, adding a generous amount of cream and sugar. Santo teases me that I don’t actually like coffee, just coffee-flavored dessert.
He’s not wrong.
I take a bite of a chocolate-filled croissant and close my eyes in bliss. My husband spoils me rotten, and I have no intention of ever complaining about it.
The house is quiet this morning, our security team keeping a respectful distance. I know they’re there—Santo would never leave me truly alone, not after what happened last year, but the illusion of privacy is nice.
I check the time on my phone. Five minutes until he’s back.
Taking my coffee, I wander into the living room where our Christmas tree dominates the corner. It’s massive,Santo insisted,and dripping with ornaments. Some are elegant crystal pieces he bought from designers whose names I still can’t pronounce. Others are handmade, gifts from the children from the boys and girls home we support, who look at Santo with a mixture of fear and adoration.
My favorite is the small clay star Luna helped me make, painted in uneven strokes of gold and blue. It hangs front and center, Santo’s orders.
I run my fingers over a velvet ribbon, remembering how we decorated together last week. Santo lifting me to place the angel on top, his hands strong and sure around my waist.
The front door opens, and I turn, coffee forgotten on the side table as I listen to the familiar cadence of my husband’s footsteps. Heavy. Purposeful. The sound of safety approaching.
“Santo?” I call out, already moving toward the entryway. “Did you really need to get my present this early in the morning?”
He appears in the doorway, snowflakes melting in his dark hair, cheeks flushed from the cold. His eyes warm when they land on me, that particular look that still makes my stomach flip.
“Dea,” he greets, voice rough with that perfect smirk of his. “Andyes,it was necessary.”
I cross my arms, trying to look stern despite the smile tugging at my lips. “What was so important?”
I watch as he prowls closer, hand behind his back.
